I remember seeing this movie, but I can’t recall the name of it. I was about 12 years old when it was playing in our neighborhood theater. I believe it was narrated by a famous actor with a resounding voice, such as Orson Welles, that drew you into the story as he spoke.
The narrator went back and forth in time as he described the emotional scenes as the movie progressed.
It began with a young girl having a terrible argument with her mother and then storming out of the house to go into town just to get away. The part that is vivid in my memory is when she was in the town, crossing the street and thinking only of how angry she was with her mother, so angry that she didn’t even see the fast-moving truck that hit her, sending her flying across the road… killing her instantly.
This is not the end of her story; it’s the beginning. You see, this movie is a fantasy because her “ghost” leaves her body and goes home to her mother who was working in the kitchen that afternoon preparing food for the evening meal.
At this point my eyes were wide with anticipation as I sat in my seat at the movie theater wondering what was going to happen next.
The ghost of the young girl kept following her mother in the kitchen trying to get her attention, as her mother went from the stove to the pantry, to the counter, and back again to the stove, where she adjusted the flame and stirred the food as it was cooking. Her daughter’s ghost began pleading, saying, “Mother, Mother, please, I want you to hear me, Mother please listen! Can’t you hear me! I just want to say…. I just want to tell you…. I love you, Mom, and I’m sorry! Please! Please! Forgive me!”
Her mother, of course, couldn’t hear or see her daughter’s ghost and, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten the rest of the movie.
But “her” mother reminded me of “my” mom in her housedress, working in our kitchen.
When the movie was over, I rushed home and told my mom about this great movie I saw and explained the entire story to her, leaving nothing out, and when I was finished and we were looking at each other, I said, while holding my composure, “Ma, I just want to tell you…I love you, Ma,” and with a smile and loving eyes she hugged and kissed me.
My mother always knew that I loved her, but I am so glad I said it to her that day.
By David S. Weinstein
